


The coming storm

by JaqofSpades



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Drabble Meme, M/M, not a drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 01:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12121869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: Out there, he is the calm; in Port Royal, Flint seems intent on being the hurricane.





	The coming storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lethally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lethally/gifts).



> For my lovely linnd @ofwoodsandwaves on tumblr: 9.“You can’t banish me! This is my bed too!” Black Sails, Flint/Silver. (Confession: I think of you so much as 'ofwoodsandwaves' and a poet that I forget you are 'lethally' too and EVERY TIME I am surprised and 'omg I love her stuff' :P)

 

Flint is raging harder than the storm that has kept them in port for a week now. Out there, he is the calm; in Port Royal, Flint seems intent on being the hurricane. Silver spends his time ducking the debris.

“Get out,” Flint growls as Silver lurches down onto the wide, too-soft bed. He blinks, taken aback by his Captain's vehemence, but sits anyway. Navigating Flint is simultaneously the most important skill he has and the biggest test of his bravery. He likes to think he has mastered both his mercurial lover and his coward's soul.

“You can't banish me. This is my bed, too!” Too much emphasis, he realises a moment too late. He has raised the stakes, and the Captain will see that as a line in the sand. He will be intent on erasing it, now.

“Your bed? Your bed? 'tis mine, scumsucker,” Flint hurls himself into the fight. “You want the bed? Take it from me.”

The wise course of action would be to capitulate, to smooth the cranky parrot's outraged feathers. Silver likes to think of himself as wise. But the sneer on Flint's face, the arrogant sprawl of freckled limbs on impressively white linen … bravery wins. Or lust. It's all the same, with Flint.

He's taking his life in his hands, Silver knows, as he bends close to that hateful mouth. Slides one hungry hand down, down, to trace the bulge of muscle over one freckled thigh. To find another muscle, silken to the touch and throbbing with heat.

“How shall I take it, Captain? Hard and fast, or so slowly you beg for me to finish the job?”

“Whore,” Flint growls back, and Silver makes a note. He'll exact payment for that later.

Now, his brain is clouding with lust as he bites his way down that long, pale body, lingering at a freckle here, the sensitive line of a rib there. Then his mouth is full, the familiar flavour bursting over his tastebuds, powerful buttocks clenching under his fingers as Flint bucks up into his mouth.

Silver sucks hard until the bastard is moaning and writhing, then lets his teeth scrape along the length of Flint's near-to-bursting cock before abandoning it to strain helplessly against Flint's belly. 'Tis war, after all.

“I'll leave then. See you aboard.”

He doesn't even make it off the bed before Flint roars into action, flattening Silver face down into the mattress and dragging his trousers free of his arse in one impressive lunge. There'll be no time or consideration for oil, Silver knows, so he thinks loose thoughts and sends up a prayer of thanks for his time in the privy earlier.

He could say no – Flint has made it clear that's not how things are between them – but he likes losing a little too much. Flint is so solicitous afterwards, and he gets royally fucked into the bargain.  Silver wonders if he should resist a little, fight back to sweeten the surrender, but ... desire is snapping at him, pulling at him like wind in the rigging. So easy to let go, and lose himself in it.  Let the storm pick him up, wash over him, cast him up on the shore a sodden, panting mess.

Or, he thinks, as he wriggles over a pillow and spreads his thighs wide, he could use every skill he has to ride the storm.

"Fuck me," he commands, careful to keep it defiant.  "Do your worst."

And Flint snarls, and plunges, and for a moment - but only a moment - Silver cedes, shuddering with delight at the fury he has unleashed.  He would write odes to this, the beauty of the tempest.  Compose songs.  But for now, that's not what Flint needs.  He needs a pirate, a leader, another storm.

He can be that, for Flint.  Howl as loud as any man, fiercer than most.   Strike terror into the multitude.  For now, though - he grins, giggles into the sheet even as Flint makes the entire bed shake with the vigor of his pounding.  Beware, he crows.  Beware Long John Silver.  

The coming storm.

_fin_

 

 


End file.
